


One Imperfect Weekend

by SuperKat



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Bad Things Happen To Carlos, Cecil Is a Good Boyfriend, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pneumonia, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 17:15:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5751562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperKat/pseuds/SuperKat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlos prepares for the perfect weekend, but his plan backfires spectacularly. The week is, scientifically speaking, godawful.  The weekend is somehow worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Imperfect Weekend

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: Welcome to Night Vale is a production of Night Vale Presents. It is written by Joseph Fink and Jeffery Cranor, and produced by Joseph Fink. For once, I didn't have to look anything up before writing a disclaimer. The voice of Night Vale is Cecil Baldwin. The voice of Carlos is Dylan Marron. The voice of Dr Bushaya is your brain. Yes. Yours.
> 
> No infringement is intended.
> 
> (Seriously though this is just shameless hurt/comfort, with very little that actually resembles plot. The story has something of a small arc if you hold it at arm's length and un-focus your eyes, but really it's just self-indulgent fluff. I'm not sorry.)

Scientifically speaking, it’s a godawful week.

First, time has a temper tantrum, which causes the weekend to pass in a literal blur lasting five minutes at most. Cecil takes it in stride as he always does, peacefully humming chants over the coffee maker on the premature Monday morning while Carlos glowers into his cereal. One supernaturally good cup of coffee later, Carlos makes a promise: next weekend will be entirely devoted to Cecil, without exceptions, distractions, or interruptions of any sort. (Although temporal behavioral incidents are largely out of Carlos’s control, as a scientist he may be one of few people in Night Vale who can give time a stern talking-to, if it comes to that.) On Friday evening, he’s going to make Cecil the best portabella risotto the man has ever eaten in his life, and Carlos has a detailed set of plans to ensure that the weekend only improves from there.

Ever since he returned from the desert otherworld (a period also known as The Year He Will Regret For The Rest Of His Life) Carlos has been making an extra effort to give Cecil the attention he deserves. He’s proud to state that he’s been keeping 93% of their plans, which is a statistically significant improvement on his reliability before the otherworld. He tries to only work late two nights per week, three at most. This resolution in particular has been difficult to keep owing to the loss of a year’s worth of data, for which he feels the need to compensate. Yet it’s absolutely vital for Carlos to keep this coming weekend untouched by work or science or time tantrums or any other possible form of distraction.

So he works late Monday through Thursday in order to finish as much as he can before Friday. Cecil understands.

Second, an awful cold has been going around the lab. Carlos had caught it last week despite his best efforts to avoid exposure. Consuming copious amounts of Day Quill, he managed to power through to the weekend with plans to sleep it off. However, five minutes later he awoke on Monday morning, noticing among other things that the infection had migrated into his chest. Now he’s spending the better part of his long workdays coughing into his elbow and trying to ignore the observation that he’s the only person not getting better.

He is consistently the last person to leave the lab at night, driving home in pitch darkness and unseasonably cold rain. Has he mentioned that it’s been raining and unseasonably cold all week? Well, it has.

Thursday night, Carlos finds himself again alone in the lab, exhausted, coughing intermittently, scribbling notes and editing reports and trying to ignore the throbbing, aching feeling in his muscles and chest. Tomorrow at this time, he and Cecil will have finished the best portabella risotto Carlos has ever made, and the evening will be as close to perfect as Carlos can manage. Maybe they’ll even get a double weekend to make up for the lost one. It’s happened before. The thought carries him through the rest of his work.

Driving home through rain, darkness, and fog that literally creeps up the sidewalk, Carlos sighs, deflated, listless. His head feels like it weighs ten kilograms instead of the more scientifically accurate five. When he parks, Carlos rests his forehead on the steering wheel for a few seconds, closing his eyes and coughing. Then a screeching sound around the corner jolts him from his rest, and he trudges through the cold, misty air into the building and up to their second-floor apartment.

By the time he reaches the top of the stairs, he is wheezing. His physical state, he realizes, is becoming progressively difficult to ignore.

Cecil is sitting on the couch watching TV. Carlos notices the empty plate on the coffee table and instantly feels his insides clench with guilt. It’s okay, he tells himself. He’ll make it up to Cecil tomorrow.

Cecil looks up when the door clicks shut, greeting Carlos with that gentle, loving smile that always makes Carlos feel warm and weak inside. Carlos tries to smile back, but his little residual strength is rapidly draining. He hangs his raincoat on the stand, which is covered with maroon fur today but not showing fangs so he chances it, exhaling slowly to ward off a coughing fit.

Managing a strangled, “Hi,” Carlos stumbles into the kitchen and pours himself a glass of water, nearly forgetting to check that what comes out of the tap is actually water before taking several gulps of it. He’s panting and exhausted, his muscles are aching, his breath is crackling in his chest, and he’s feeling the beginnings of a chill under his skin. Dammit. Carlos stifles a groan, resting his head against the refrigerator.

“Carlos?”

Footsteps on the tile floor. Carlos looks up to see Cecil, those beautiful eyes narrow with concern. Carlos forces a smile, sets his glass on the counter, and lets himself be enveloped in a hug. He closes his eyes for a long moment before he is forced to break the embrace, nearly doubling over with a painful, barking cough.

“Are you okay?”

Carlos picks up his glass with mildly trembling hands and drains the rest of the water. He sighs. Assesses the growing ache in his muscles and burgeoning chill in his bones. After a few seconds, he shakes his head.

“To be honest,” he says, his voice hoarse. He clears his throat and tries again. “To be honest, I’m not feeling very well.”

“I can see that.” Cecil wraps an arm around his waist. As always, the low murmur of his voice makes every cell in Carlos’s body relax. “What can I do?”

Carlos pauses for a moment. “I think,” he says, before his voice catches and he coughs again. “I just want to go to bed.”

“Okay.” Cecil’s voice is heavy with concern, and it’s with some reluctance that Carlos pulls away to refill his cup before getting ready for bed.

By the time he has changed into his nighttime lab coat, Carlos is actively shivering. He tries to blame the unseasonably cold temperatures, but he checks the thermostat (the one with the hidden camera more effectively camouflaged, as he still isn’t used to the idea of someone watching him adjust the internal temperature) and the room isn’t significantly colder than average. Dammit _._ Carlos climbs into bed, pulling the blankets over his shoulders and drawing his knees to his chest.

Maybe if he stays home tomorrow, he’ll recover the strength to make dinner and start the perfect weekend. Maybe his efforts to get work out of the way _haven’t_ actually spoiled everything…

Carlos hears footsteps and feels a depression on the other side of the bed. He turns, still shivering, to see Cecil watching him with open concern.

“Are you cold?” Cecil asks. Carlos nods with some reluctance. “Do you want me to turn the heat on?”

Carlos shakes his head. “No, I’m-” his voice falters and he turns away to cough, rolling over completely when the fit doesn’t end. He’s coughing with a horrible, wheezing sound that rumbles deep in his chest and strips his throat raw. He’s panting when the fit subsides, and it’s a moment before he notices Cecil rubbing his back. Carlos closes his eyes as Cecil wraps his arms around him from behind. The heat from Cecil’s body feels nice.

“You should stay home tomorrow.”

Carlos hesitates, then nods, not trusting himself to speak without coughing again.

“Are you sure I can’t do anything?”

Carlos swallows once. “Will you…just talk to me?”

“Of course.” Cecil kisses the back of Carlos’s head and starts speaking softly into his ear. His voice is velvety and soporific, and soon Carlos, smiling for the first time all day, finds himself drifting into sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

He wakes up to pitch darkness, which is unusual for him; usually it takes three different alarms successively and then in unison to rouse him from sleep. He feels like he’s burning from the inside, feels it in his cheeks, his stomach, the space between his fingers. Under the sheets, he can feel the heat from his body reflected back at his skin and the sensation is nearly unbearable. As quietly as he can, Carlos extricates himself from Cecil’s arms and pushes back the covers.

The air in the room shocks his fevered skin and he shudders, even as he’s wiping sweat from his forehead. His chest is crackling so badly that it’s hard to draw a full breath. Carlos stumbles into the bathroom and coughs over the sink for nearly a full minute. He’s leaning against the cool porcelain, his elbows shaking with the effort of supporting his weight. Lightheaded, he near-collapses onto the toilet and buries his head in trembling hands. He’s exhausted and shivering and too hot and nauseous and grateful he hasn’t eaten anything since lunch.

A soft tap on the bathroom door. A tentative but gentle voice: “Carlos?” Dammit.

Carlos takes in a slow breath. “It’s open.” He exhales slowly, shuddering, trying to avoid another fit. He swallows once, immediately regretting it when his throat spasms in sharp pain.

Then Cecil is here, filling a cup of water in the sink, pressing it into Carlos’s trembling hands. As Carlos sips the water, he feels a cold hand on his forehead and hears Cecil’s sharp intake of breath.  

“Am I burning up?” Carlos whispers.

“No, Carlos, no,” Cecil’s voice is heavy with reassurance in a way that Carlos had not been expecting. “Nothing like that. You just have a high fever.”

Carlos stifles a laugh in a failed attempt to avoid another coughing fit. Cecil takes the cup from him and rubs his back while Carlos coughs harshly into his elbow.

“We should take your temperature,” Cecil says when the fit recedes.

Carlos nods. He holds the thermometer under his tongue, trying not to cough for what feels like several minutes. Given Night Vale’s inconsistently functioning time, it’s of course possible that it does take that long. Carlos glances at the screen before handing it to Cecil, but without his glasses he can’t make out the numbers.

“Thirty-nine point two,” Cecil reads, sounding perplexed. Carlos had forgotten that this was his thermometer originally. Night Vale is insular in the oddest of ways sometimes.

“The white button next to the screen,” he whispers.

He hears a small beep, then: “One-oh-two point six. My poor Carlos.”

Carlos is tempted to say, _See? Burning up,_ but decides not to waste his breath on another conversation about outsider idioms. Cecil roots through the medicine cabinet to retrieve a bottle of Tylenol. Carlos gratefully accepts two pills, though his throat clenches with that stabbing pain again as he swallows them.

It hits him for the first time that he is not going to be well enough to make dinner tomorrow, and he squeezes his eyes shut. He can feel a lump rising in the back of throat. He cries easily when he’s feverish; Cecil is the only person in Night Vale who knows this about him. Carlos can feel Cecil’s hand on his back but doesn’t trust himself to say anything.

“Come back to bed,” says Cecil, his voice caressing Carlos so gently that Carlos almost loses his grip on himself. “We’ll see how you feel in the morning and take it from there.”

Carlos nods and lets Cecil guide him into the bedroom. Once in bed, Carlos curls up on his side as Cecil covers him with a single sheet, which feels pleasantly cool against his skin. Before Carlos can ask, Cecil begins to speak softly in his ear, the sound caressing him as the world fades.

* * *

 

His sleep is restless, full of disjointed dreams that slip from his memory and heavily distort his sense of what is real and what isn't. Carlos spends what feels like hours in a dark, fevered haze, unsure if he’s awake or asleep or somewhere in between. An onslaught of discordant sound startles him awake and he fights to sit up, terrified, until cool hands gently push him back down.

“It’s okay. It’s just the sunrise. You’re okay.”

Carlos instantly stills at the sound of Cecil’s voice, but his heart is pounding and he dissolves into a harsh and painful coughing fit. He rolls onto his side and Cecil rubs his back until it’s over.

“I’m going to give you some water, okay?”

Carlos nods and opens his eyes. Cecil is sitting on the edge of the bed, his eyes gentle but full of concern as he holds a cup and straw where Carlos can sip from it. Much as it hurts to swallow, the cool water calms the stinging in his throat. Carlos tries to steady his breath, struggling against the sensation that something is squeezing his chest on the inside.

"The lab," he says, his voice pitched low and barely louder than a whisper.

“I called in for you first thing this morning," Cecil whispers, brushing Carlos’s bangs from his forehead. Carlos nods, feeling pathetic.  He rarely takes sick days; someone hasn't called an absence on his behalf since childhood.  “I also called the doctor’s office," Cecil continues.  "They said to come in at any time and Dr Bushaya will see you. Can you sit up?”

Carlos nods. It takes a minute, his arms shaking, his skin protesting the cool air that hits him when the blankets slip away. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and pauses to catch his breath.

“Not Doctor Williams?”

“Teddy Williams? He specializes in injuries.” Cecil sounds confused. “As per the requirements of bowling alley owner certification.”

“Right. Of course.”

Cecil kisses the top of his head. “It’s alright. You’re sick. I understand.” He brings Carlos his glasses, shoes and coat. Five minutes later, when they finally reach the bottom of the stairs, Carlos is wheezing, lightheaded with exhaustion.  

“Do you need to rest a minute?” Cecil asks. Carlos shakes his head, but by the time they reach Cecil’s car, his knees are shaking.   Once inside, Carlos rests his head on the window, coughing quietly. He can feel the glass vibrating as Cecil starts the ignition. It occurs to him that Cecil is going to be late for work; two centiseconds later it occurs to him that Cecil may have taken the day off. His heart sinking, Carlos looks at his boyfriend, who takes his eyes from the road briefly to meet his gaze.

“The radio,” Carlos says. Cecil shakes his head.

“I’m not going in today. You’re too sick to be on your own.” Carlos closes his eyes, guilt washing over him. “Hey,” says Cecil, resting his hand on Carlos’s knee. “It’s okay. When I took my vacation, I found out that I’ve accrued a lot of time off. A _lot_ of time,” he repeats in a quieter tone. “Anyway, the station will be fine without me for a day.   You’re more important.”

“Station Management wasn’t angry?”

Cecil chuckles. “Carlos, ratings of my show have skyrocketed since we started dating. Why do you think they let me talk about you so much? Whoever does the broadcast will probably explain exactly why I’m not there, and it will garner interest all over town.”

Carlos reaches into his coat pocket to silence his phone, no longer minding that Cecil is missing work. He makes a mental note to discuss parameters of Cecil’s next broadcast sometime when he's feeling better.

They pull into the parking lot of the doctor’s office, and Carlos leans on Cecil’s arm as they walk inside. In the waiting room, Carlos closes his eyes and rests his aching head on Cecil's shoulder. It what seems like seconds (either he fell asleep or it’s another time hiccup) a nurse appears in the doorway, calling his name.

Even after living here four years, Carlos finds amusement in the confusion on people’s faces when they read his last name. Not, as in his life before Night Vale, because they don’t know how to pronounce it, but because they are genuinely surprised that his name isn’t actually “Scientist.”

Dr Bushaya is a benevolent mix of energy and ether who prefers impersonal pronouns and is contained in the building by rune carvings on the doors and walls (experiments regarding the nature of the containment field apparently generated by the runes have been – according to Dave – inconclusive). It manifests as a mildly refracted patch of light that, like many things in this town, is easier to see when one isn’t directly looking at it.

_Yes,_ it says in what is not so much a voice as a startlingly coherent thought forming in Carlos’s mind. _I was notified that you had taken your temperature last night and this morning. Due to the unusually high and rising temperature, I expected to see you here._

Carlos has been living in Night Vale long enough that the strangest part of this exchange is the realization that Cecil had taken his temperature this morning without him noticing.

Dr. Bushaya performs its examination, which involves passing part of itself through Carlos’s body over the course of approximately 92 seconds, while Carlos obeys instructions that manifest as sudden inklings, such as _take a deep breath_ and _cough._ After the exam, the headrest of the examining table rises seemingly of its own accord, as Dr Bushaya tells him, _Rest. I’ll be right with you_.

Carlos leans back and closes his eyes, his muscles aching, his breath short and crackling inside his chest. He hasn’t taken off his coat, so is simultaneously too cold and too warm. After a moment, he feels Cecil stroking his hair. They stay this way until the air by the door shimmers.

_To the point_ , says Dr. Bushaya. _You have pneumonia._

Carlos whispers a grunt of frustration. He is not altogether surprised, more angry with himself for causing this, for being once more unable to give Cecil the weekend he deserves. Cecil is still running his fingers through his hair; the sensation, though comforting, exacerbates his guilt.

An antique typewriter in the corner starts operating with a series of arrhythmic clicks.

_I’m writing you a prescription for an antibiotic,_ Dr. Bushaya says. _You can pick it up immediately at the pharmacy. Take one pill as soon as you get home, then another this evening. Continue taking one pill twice per day until the prescription is empty, not_ – here the thought takes on a particularly strong conviction – _when you start to feel better. Finish the bottle or you risk relapse._ Carlos nods.

When the typewriter stops, Cecil goes to it and pulls out a small piece of yellow paper with writing that Carlos can’t make out from here.

_Bed rest,_ Dr. Bushaya continues, _for two days at least. Drink plenty of fluids and sleep as much as you can. No strenuous activity for several days after that. If you are feeling up to it, you may return to work late next week. Do not work overtime. The severity of your illness is partially due to exhaustion. You will not recover fully unless you rest._

“I understand,” Carlos replies. The words catch in his throat and he coughs.

There’s a shift in the refracted light, making Carlos suspect that the doctor is now primarily addressing Cecil. _The antibiotics will take some time to take effect. You may find he gets worse before he gets better. If his condition does not show improvement within three days, you may contact me here or take his temperature, which of course will notify me directly._

“Okay,” Cecil replies. Dr. Bushaya dissipates, that or it simply passes through the wall; it’s difficult to tell. After slipping the prescription into his back pocket, Cecil helps Carlos step off the examining table.

Carlos sits in the waiting area at the pharmacy, the undulating chants behind the counter nearly lulling him to sleep. He does fall asleep on the drive home, waking up with a start to find Cecil gripping his shoulder and whispering his name. Once they’re inside the building, the shift from cold, damp air to warm interior triggers a coughing fit that lasts nearly half a minute. Cecil closes the front door as Carlos leans on the wall for support, attempting to regain control of his lungs. After the fit subsides, Cecil wraps him in a hug. Carlos clings to him.

“I hate this,” he whispers, his voice little more than a rasp.

“I know,” Cecil replies in that low, soothing tone.

Ascending the stairs to their apartment, Carlos leans on his boyfriend increasingly until Cecil is practically carrying him. Once they reach the bedroom, Carlos all but collapses into bed, barely registering Cecil pulling off his shoes, glasses, and coat. Cecil helps him sit up to take the antibiotic and another dose of Tylenol, before gently setting him back on the pillow, which is cool and comforting against his flushed cheek.

“Sleep now,” says Cecil, pulling the covers over Carlos’s shoulders and kissing his forehead. “I’ll be right here if you need anything.”

 

* * *

 

Carlos wakes sometime later, his mind fuzzy, his skin flushed and burning, his chest tight. Blinking, he manages a short, trembling breath before a painful coughing fit overtakes him. Cecil rubs his back, giving him water when the fit subsides. Carlos whispers a thanks, feels Cecil kiss his temple, and closes his eyes. He may drift back into sleep but he’s not sure.

He opens his eyes again to see Cecil, sitting in a chair that he must have pulled from the kitchen, sketching something on a pad of paper with one of his pastels. The daylight spills over his hair and shoulders so that he looks ethereal, like a religious painting. Carlos watches him, keeping his breath steady and as quiet as he can.

Carlos remembers when Cecil made a painting of him to keep in the studio. Carlos had listened to the broadcast from his makeshift lab in the otherworld, his heart nearly shattering at the desolation in Cecil’s voice after the painting was destroyed. To this day Carlos wonders if any other listeners could tell that their radio host was crying. Talking to him that evening, Carlos couldn’t tell if that show had been from the same day or a different one. Cecil didn’t mention the painting, so Carlos thought it best to avoid it as well.

But, he remembers with a pang in his chest that has nothing to do with his illness, he had been planning to make it up to Cecil this weekend. For 54 hours straight (with potential variability owing to time’s mood swings), everything was going to be about Cecil, every millisecond part of a continuous attempt to make up for that awful year. Now, not only has he spoiled their perfect weekend, but he’s going to fall further behind in his work, which he’ll need to make up, pulling him farther from Cecil and increasing his guilt in a feedback loop he can’t control. Tears sting his eyes before he can stop them, dripping down his cheeks and soaking the pillow. Carlos closes his eyes and tries to steady his breathing.

“Hey.” Too late. More tears fall. “Carlos.” Footsteps on the floor. A depression on the edge of the mattress. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

Carlos takes a deep, shuddering breath and lets it out slowly. “I’m sorry,” he whimpers, his voice almost beyond recognition.

“No, it’s okay,” says Cecil, misunderstanding him. Carlos feels Cecil’s hand on his forehead. “I just…here. Why don’t I run you a bath, to try to bring your fever down?”

More tears. Carlos nods. Cecil cups Carlos’s face in his hands and presses a kiss to his forehead. Nothing Carlos ever does in his life will make him worthy of this man. The edge of the bed rises, and Carlos hears Cecil’s footsteps, the click of the bathroom light, a brief chant, and the rush of water filling the bathtub. Carlos scrubs his eyes with the palm of his hand and tremulously pushes himself into a sitting position.

He is dizzy and shaking all over, his knees barely support his weight, and his breath is short and crackling and painful as he stumbles from the bedroom, leaning against the wall most of the way. By the time he reaches the bathroom, the tub is nearly full. Cecil, his sleeves rolled up, is testing the water. He stands abruptly when he sees Carlos in the doorway.

“I was about to come get you,” he says, his eyes soft with concern. Without another word, he helps Carlos remove his lab coat, undershirt, and sweatpants. Carlos should feel humiliated, a grown adult and accomplished scientist nearly too weak to undress himself, but he feels nothing. Maybe it’s Cecil, who loves him fully and unconditionally. Maybe Carlos is simply too exhausted to feel anymore.

The water is lukewarm; he knows this intellectually, but against his skin it’s harsh and cold. Carlos can’t stop himself from gasping, which of course turns into another coughing fit. He’s relieved when he can lean back and rest his head against the bathroom wall.

“I’m going to get you some clean clothes,” says Cecil. “Will you be alright here?” Carlos nods and listens to Cecil’s footsteps in the hall, in the bedroom. He closes his eyes, inhaling slowly, ignoring the crackling in his chest.

By the time Cecil returns, Carlos is feeling much calmer. He opens his eyes and gives Cecil a weak smile, which is quickly returned. “Better?” Cecil asks, crouching next to the tub.

“You,” Carlos replies in a tone just above a whisper, “are the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Cecil has that look in his eyes like he’s an innocent child and one thousand years old at the same time. Carlos wonders how many people in Night Vale know how captivating his smile is. Cecil leans over the side of the tub and kisses him, just once, just gently.

“I love you,” Cecil whispers.

Carlos returns to bed feeling somewhat stronger. Strong enough, in fact, to eat more than half of the bowl of broth that Cecil heats up for him. Carlos tries not to dwell on the fact that this broth was meant to be in the best portabella risotto that Cecil has ever eaten, focusing instead on taking small, slow bites. He’s relieved when the broth stays down.

It stays down even half an hour later when Carlos succumbs to the longest, most intense coughing fit he’s ever had. He struggles to inhale between coughs until he starts to worry about suffocating. He can feel the heat rising in his cheeks and forehead. After he finally manages to draw a breath, Carlos coughs so hard he gags, yet the fit refuses to end. The edge of his vision is turning grey and the inside of his throat feels scraped raw. He senses movement; Cecil is sitting him up and leaning him forward, one arm wrapped around his chest and another patting his back. He can hear Cecil speaking in a low, comforting tone but can’t make out what he’s saying.

When he finally regains control, Carlos draws a long, slow breath with an audible wheeze. He swallows in a desperate attempt to avoid another fit, but his throat spasms so painfully that he cringes and nearly loses control. More movement; he feels himself being pulled back to rest against Cecil's body.  Carlos closes his eyes, feeling limp and dizzy, his chest and throat throbbing and stinging. He focuses on the rise and fall of Cecil’s chest, trying to match it with his own breath as Cecil’s hand gently strokes his cheek.

“Here,” whispers Cecil, offering him the cup of water with the straw. Carlos takes a few sips and feels the stinging in his throat start to subside. He tries to grasp the cup with violently trembling hands, but Cecil says, “I’ll hold it. Just relax and drink the rest.”

When the cup is empty, Cecil pulls him toward the head of the bed and stacks the pillows so that Carlos can lean against them instead of lying flat. Carlos hates that he’s too weak to help. After making sure Carlos is okay, Cecil kisses his forehead and goes to refill the cup.

Instead of returning to the chair, Cecil sets the water on his own nightstand and sits next to Carlos on the bed. With great effort, Carlos turns his head to find his boyfriend near tears. Carlos tries to say he’s sorry, he didn’t mean for this to happen, he’ll be fine soon, but he chokes on the first word and closes his eyes against a weaker set of coughs.

“Shh.” Cecil brushes Carlos’s bangs from his forehead. “Don’t speak. Just rest.” His voice, his perfect, beautiful, honey voice, trembles slightly. He is still stroking Carlos’s forehead as Carlos closes his eyes and feels himself drift.

 

* * *

 

He wakes to the sound of the radio. It’s not the news, he realizes after a moment, but a woman’s voice reading numbers, interspersed with the sound of a chime. Carlos enjoyed this station once; his team used to record all the numbers in a five-minute stretch, competing to find a pattern or formula that accounted for all of them. They stopped a while ago; he can’t remember why but he thinks it has to do with something that happened on Cecil’s show.

Cecil is still sitting on the bed, leaning against his own set of pillows. His expression is tight but it softens when he sees Carlos awake.

“Hi,” Cecil whispers, stroking Carlos’s temple. Carlos gives him a weak smile in return. Cecil retrieves the cup of water from the nightstand, and Carlos manages a few sips before closing his eyes. He feels Cecil’s hand gently grasping his own, and they sit quietly for a long time, listening to the slow progression of numbers and chimes.  

 

* * *

 

Carlos doesn't realize he's falling asleep until he jerks awake, shivering and sweating, to find Cecil wiping his face and neck with a cool, damp cloth. Carlos hisses through his teeth in an effort to hold back tears of frustration at his stupid, weak body and this stupid, stubborn infection. Cecil gives him more Tylenol and speaks to him quietly and Carlos slips into a much deeper sleep than before.

 

* * *

 

The next time Carlos opens his eyes, Cecil brings him a mug of honey lemon tea and together they listen to the community news. Interns Samuel and Halima are co-hosting today’s broadcast. As Cecil had predicted, they open the show by explaining exactly why the regular host isn’t there. Carlos is unsurprised when his and Cecil’s phones start buzzing within a few minutes of the announcement.

“It’s heartwarming,” says Cecil, smiling at his phone after the show finishes, “how many people offered to include us in their bloodstone circle prayers. This town has truly adopted you as one of their own.”

This observation leaves Carlos with a twisted mesh of feelings that he can barely begin to detangle, more or less articulate, so instead he says, “It probably helps that I’m dating a local celebrity.”

He hears the low rumble of Cecil’s quiet chuckle, one of many things that – had Carlos not been running a temperature upwards of thirty-nine degrees and working for every breath – would have completely disarmed him. He finds Cecil’s hand and squeezes it.

“I’m going to make this up to you,” he says with as much conviction as he can manage. “I promise, okay?”

Cecil doesn’t reply at first, instead taking the empty mug from Carlos and setting it on his nightstand. He then shifts his position so that he can look Carlos in the eye, cupping his face in both hands.

“You have nothing,” Cecil says, his gaze intense and blazing, “to make up to me. I hate that you’re suffering, but you’re here and that is what matters to me. You have not done anything that you need to make up for.” Carlos’s gaze shifts away for a moment, and Cecil says with even more conviction, “No. This is not your fault. I may not know many things, but I know that no one gets this sick just from working too much. This is not your fault, and even if it were, I wouldn’t care. All I want is for you to rest and get better. So just do that, okay?”

Dammit. Carlos is near tears again. Swallowing, he exhales slowly and nods.

“Come here,” Cecil pulls him into a hug. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Carlos whispers, his voice barely above a rasp. Neither of them moves or speaks for several minutes. Eventually, Cecil starts telling another story, a story about a small town, a mysterious stranger, and lights in the sky above a parking lot. Carlos smiles and once more lets himself be lulled into sleep.

 

* * *

 

He’s sleeping so deeply that he barely manages to wake when Cecil gives him his antibiotic in the evening. After swallowing the pill, he becomes semi-aware of movement, of blankets shifting and two arms and a warm body wrapping around him, but Carlos returns to slumber within seconds and doesn’t remember any of it later.

 

* * *

 

Saturday passes in much the same way, Carlos’s fever rising and falling and rising again, him drifting in and out of sleep and surrendering to coughing fits that leave him too exhausted to move. But Cecil never leaves his side, except to refill his water or make him tea or heat up more broth. Cecil and his kind eyes and beautiful voice make this illness marginally bearable.

By evening, Carlos’s coughs have become wetter (a good sign, he knows, if a disgusting one) and he’s pretty sure he never wants to be in this bedroom ever again. Cecil helps him walk to the living room, and they curl up on the couch, watching Cat Ballou while Carlos sips more tea and outside the sun sets with a cacophony that is almost like a celebration.

 

* * *

 

Sunday is better. Sunday his temperature hovers in the thirty-eight range and he’s able to take more than a few steps without having to lean on something. He even manages to keep down a bowl of rice noodles. Cecil, openly delighted at the improvement, brings blankets and pillows into the living room so that Carlos can rest on the couch. When not at his sick boyfriend’s side, Cecil is in the kitchen, sorting through cards, flowers, and other tokens of support that have been appearing on the doorstep of the building. Their downstairs neighbors have started bringing the gifts straight to their apartment.

“People know I’m not dying, right?” says Carlos as Cecil frowns over a card marked ‘With Sympathy.’ The card is attached to a single, humming, blood-colored buttercup. The sound clashes with the low buzzing that has started emanating from a bouquet of the smallest peonies Carlos has ever seen.

“Yes,” says Cecil, setting the buttercup in a vase on the windowsill. The miniature peonies stay on the kitchen table for the moment. “Apparently the florist has run out of ‘Get Well Soon’ cards. Some people have sent ‘Thank You’ cards, likely for the same reason. Though,” Cecil tilts his head to one side, ”There’s one here that’s actually _from_ the florist, so that one might have been intentional.”

Carlos can’t stop himself from laughing, and within seconds he’s coughing into a tissue. Dropping the dirty tissue into the half-filled trash bin that Cecil had set next to the couch, he notices the peonies begin to burst one-by-one in miniature puffs of thick, black smoke. Cecil rushes to trap the bouquet under a wooden salad bowl, then holds the accompanying card under a magnifying glass and reads, “Lane 5, Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex. How…thoughtful,” he says as the upturned bowl quivers.

There’s another knock on the door, which Cecil answers, first with a smile, then with a near-panicked, “No!” Carlos watches in alarm as Cecil rushes into the stairwell and slams the door behind him. There are muffled shouts, then footsteps descending the stairs. Cecil returns, scowling and muttering, “What were they _thinking_?”

“What was that about?” Carlos asks.

“It’s fine,” says Cecil in a tone that clearly states that it’s _not_ _at all_ fine. “Just some thoughtless people who were _obviously_ not listening when I _explicitly_ stated that you are _allergic_ to cats. Can you imagine? In your condition, you’d have wound up in the hospital!” Cecil scowls, washing his hands with more vigor than necessary.

“Someone,” says Carlos, “sent a cat?”

“Cat tails,” Cecil growls. “A whole bouquet of them. Short-hair, by the looks of it, but I think it was a mix of breeds. How inconsiderate can they be? This after the Glow Cloud sent two whole ones yesterday! You were sleeping then, I think. I got rid of them, but why cats, of all possible animals?”

Cecil looks so angry that Carlos can’t hide a smile. He opts not to remind his grumbling boyfriend that Cecil once kept a cat in their apartment for a week, leaving Carlos to cope with nothing but a box of Claritin. Holding a blanket around his shoulders, Carlos pushes himself up and enters the kitchen. Cecil, drying his hands on a towel, gives him a nervous look.

“I didn’t touch them,” he says.

“Then it’s fine.”

“Okay.” Cecil sighs. Carlos studies him for a moment, observing the shadows under his eyes.

“I’m alright now,” Carlos says, cupping Cecil’s face in two hands in exactly the way Cecil did for him two days ago. “See? You’ve been taking amazing care of me, and I’m getting better.”

“I know.” Cecil nods, his shoulders slumping. Carlos pulls him into a hug just before the salad bowl starts rattling violently, the force of it increasing until Cecil has to run to stop it from falling off the table.

 

* * *

 

Sunday evening they discuss parameters of Monday’s broadcast (because Cecil _will_ be returning to work on Monday even though Carlos will not; Carlos will be _fine_ on his own for the day). These are the final agreements:

  1. Cecil _is_ allowed to say that Carlos has pneumonia, was very sick, is now recovering, and is expected to return to the lab later in the week.
  2. Cecil _is not_ allowed to describe Carlos’s symptoms in detail, including but not limited to discussion of his bodily fluids, inability to manage basic self-care, or tendency to cry when feverish.
  3. Cecil _is_ allowed to thank listeners for their cards, flowers, and messages of support.
  4. Cecil _is_ allowed to mention that the cat tails and cat corpses could not be accepted due to Carlos’s allergy, but _is not_ allowed to berate the anonymous benefactor or the Glow Cloud on air. (During this debate, Carlos _does_ bring up the injured-Khoshekh incident.)
  5. Cecil _is_ allowed – in fact, encouraged – to mention the exploding mini-peonies from the tiny people under the bowling alley. This was, especially given Carlos’s history with them, a very probable act of war and should be reported.
  6. Cecil _is_ allowed to publicly ponder the nature of unconditional love and caring deeply for someone, even – or especially – when they are at their worst. However, while doing this he _is not_ allowed to violate item #2.
  7. Cecil _is not_ allowed to request, encourage, hint, or so much as allude to the idea that listeners should check in on Carlos while Cecil is at work. (Carlos only wins this one by pointing out that a well-meaning but careless person might bring more cats to keep him company.)
  8. Cecil _is_ allowed to say that he is the best boyfriend ever, and Carlos is a very lucky man.



(Carlos sneaks the last one onto the list when Cecil isn’t looking, folding the paper and tucking it into the front pocket of Cecil’s bag so he won’t notice the addition until he reaches the station.)

 

* * *

 

Time must be feeling contrite, because they get an unexpected extra Saturday and half-Sunday added to the weekend. It’s a nice surprise, not in the least because Cecil is obviously relieved not to leave his recovering boyfriend home alone. Carlos, still weak with a low-grade fever and lingering cough, spends most of the extra Saturday on the couch, watching a series of computer science documentaries called “The Matrix” while Cecil gleefully waits on him.

Sunday is really just a few hours of daylight, but the sun comes out for the first time in a week and Carlos, nearing stir-crazy by this point, wraps a blanket around his shoulders and sits on the porch for most of it. Cecil brings him a mug of hot tea and they sit hand-in-hand watching the sun arc unusually quickly over their desert town.

By Monday, the fever is gone, and the day’s broadcast goes exactly as they had agreed. Carlos, listening while sitting on the couch sipping tea, is more than a little relieved.

Tuesday, he returns to work. Cecil is reluctant, but Carlos insists. Throughout the day, he texts Cecil periodically, little messages like: _Rachelle totally finished off my stash of Twix_ and _If you get the chance, will you warn your listeners that mirrors might start singing again this afternoon?_ Cecil appreciates the gesture; Carlos can tell by the tone of his voice during the broadcast that the texts have gone a long way toward alleviating his worry.

Although Carlos goes to bed early and exhausted on Tuesday and Wednesday, by Friday he’s feeling almost completely back to normal, so Friday evening he finally succeeds in making Cecil the best portabella risotto he’s ever eaten in his life. After dinner, they wash dishes in contented silence. As Carlos dries the last plate, Cecil wraps his arms around his waist from behind. Carlos relaxes into him instinctively.

“Thank you,” Cecil whispers, his tone soft and pitched in just that way that always makes Carlos go weak in the knees. Cecil’s doing it on purpose, of course. Carlos spins around to face him, linking his fingers behind Cecil’s neck. The world shifts out of focus as Cecil takes his glasses from his face and gently sets them on the counter.

Scientifically speaking, it really is a perfect weekend.


End file.
